


Always mine, always yours

by allforyoumylove



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Fluff, It's their seven-year anniversary and Sander just wants Robbe to himself, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mild Sexual Content, Nothing explicit, Pretend wedding night, Robbe in a suit, Sander struggles to function, Undressing, they're in their twenties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29883954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allforyoumylove/pseuds/allforyoumylove
Summary: Triumphant and spurred on by their talk on the dance floor, Sander mumbles against the hinge of his jaw, “Pretend it’s our wedding night. The party is over and it’s just you and me, finally alone. What would you do?”Robbe nuzzles against his cheek, smiling. “I’d take a bath.”or the one where a pretend wedding night turns into a very real proposal.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 26
Kudos: 111





	Always mine, always yours

**Author's Note:**

> It was bound to happen wasn't it... 💘💍  
> Fluff is about to ensue, you've been warned
> 
> Also, I want to thank you all for the lovely comments you left on my last fic. I genuinely got teary-eyed reading them. You're all so, so sweet, and it really motivates me to continue writing in this cute little corner we've created on here 💕🥺

“I can’t believe we’re spending our seven-year anniversary at my aunt’s wedding,” Sander mutters from where he is sitting on the hotel bed, sullen and huffy.

Robbe smiles, patient, catching Sander’s eye in the mirror while fiddling with his bowtie. “Look at it this way, sweetie: we’re getting to stay in a luxury hotel room with the softest bed and the largest bathtub I’ve ever seen for our anniversary. _For free_.” He drops his arms down by his side and turns to Sander. “Can you help me with this?”

Slowly, Sander gets up and shuffles toward him, reaching for the stubborn black material around Robbe’s neck. “Mm, I guess having a rich aunt does have its perks after all,” he relents.

“Sander…” Robbe half sighs, half chuckles, and the way he says his name makes a surge flow through Sander’s body, a surge of longing, of wanting to just keep Robbe for himself, _because it’s their fucking anniversary_ and he is selfish and couldn’t care less about his aunt’s wedding right now. He doesn’t want to socialise and make small talk with relatives he hasn’t seen in years or people he has never even met, the mere thought exhausting him already. He just wants to spend the day with Robbe, preferably in bed, preferably naked, and most preferably with his face buried between Robbe’s legs.

“Still, though,” he says. “I want to spoil you rotten myself.”

“You spoil me every day,” Robbe mumbles, absentmindedly trailing his fingertips across his chest, crimson and purple from last night’s escapades under his shirt. Sander had been considerate enough to keep it descent and below his neck, knowing how the mere thought of Sander’s family getting even the tiniest hint of them at their most private makes Robbe want to crawl out of his skin.

Murmuring a teasing, “Sappy,” and adjusting the bowtie a final time, Sander lets his gaze wander leisurely down Robbe’s slender frame, and he takes in a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach. Because Robbe Ijzermans in his oversized hoodies and loose jeans, scuffed up sneakers, beanies, and headphones around his neck already hits Sander with _so many feelings_. That has stayed exactly the same for seven years. His boy is just that crushingly stunning.

But Robbe Ijzermans in a tailored black suit, the creases of his trousers razor-sharp, shirt as white and clean as freshly fallen snow, dress shoes polished to perfection, mirror-like, silver hoop glinting in his ear, his fluffy, curly hair so exquisitely messy has Sander struggling to breathe.

_He scored big time._

“You look really good,” he utters, reaching for Robbe’s waist and pulling him close.

When Robbe flings his arms around Sander’s neck, a wave of his familiar cologne wafts over him, and in a split-second all the mental preparation Sander has done for today is out the window, the only thought running through his mind is how badly he doesn’t want to share Robbe with anyone.

“So do you,” Robbe smiles, their noses brushing. “You’re very, very nice on the eyes.”

Sander softly snorts, tightening his grip around the small of his back. “I don’t know how I’ll survive the rest of the day without touching you.”

“You can touch me,” Robbe chuckles.

“Not the way I want to,” Sander pouts, feeling awfully sorry for himself.

Tilting his head in mock sympathy, Robbe runs the back of his knuckles down Sander’s cheek. “Aw, poor you. Didn’t you get your needs covered last night? Or this morning for that matter?”

Vivid glimpses of a much more joyous time run through Sander’s mind: Robbe looking dreamy in bed, straddling his lap, neck and chest still slightly sweaty from when they had been plastered together in their sleep, his raspy voice letting Sander know how good he made him feel, his morning stubble scratchy and delicious against his upper lip. Afterwards, Robbe had snapped a photo of Sander’s reflection in their bedroom mirror as Sander sat leaning back in their white sheets, gazing out the window, blissed out and boneless and barely able to keep himself upright. It was the only anniversary celebration they had time for, before Sander’s parents came to pick them up for the long car ride to this fancy hotel. And in Sander’s opinion it wasn’t anywhere near enough.

“Thanks for putting that in my head. Having to hide a boner will definitely make this whole day a lot easier,” Sander says, deadpan.

Robbe kisses him then, tongue curling around his, teasing. But to Sander’s great dismay, he pats his cheek a moment later, disentangles himself, and slings on his suit jacket. “You’ll survive.”

And Sander does, but only just. He only just survives the ceremony when Robbe turns his palm and threads their fingers together, kissing his knuckles, and he only just survives the way Robbe looks at him throughout the night; he knows Robbe tries to be subtle, but Sander can tell as clear as day that he is mentally undressing him, and maybe once or twice or five times Sander has whispered in his ear, begging him to take a short little trip with him to _the very nice and very spacious bathroom down that long hallway_. If he glimpses an opportunity of a little alone time with Robbe, he grabs it with both hands; in that sense he is shameless and greedy, and seeing as they have done it in places a lot worse – bent over sinks in graffiti-covered nightclub restrooms, on the cold, paint-stained floor of Sander’s old studio at the Academie, in echoing bathroom stalls at museums, Sander with his jeans unzipped and shirt bunched up around his waist, trying to stay quiet, Robbe on his knees, blazing, experienced mouth at work –, his spontaneity and shamelessness having rubbed off on Robbe, he thinks he might get lucky _._ But of course, right now Robbe is a saint and way too conscientious to leave a wedding to go fool around with his boyfriend.

“Be good,” Robbe says, a little reprimanding and very fond.

Leaning in, Sander mumbles against the hinge of his jaw. “You know how good I can be.”

“Sander, come on…”

Sander drops his forehead onto Robbe’s shoulder and lets out a groan, unable to believe how much he has to endure. But then blunt nails comb through the hair at his nape – Robbe’s secret weapon for his long-suffering boyfriend –, and Sander fucking _melts._

“We have plenty of time later,” Robbe says, fingertips trailing down to his palm. “Let’s go be social now.”

Sander links their fingers and presses Robbe’s knuckles to his lips, giving in and muttering a quiet, “Alright.”

And, okay, maybe being social isn’t so bad, not when Robbe gets along so well with Sander’s cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents, just everyone, really; he can be so adorably shy sometimes, but he is good with people and likes being around them. Although Sander has always been the more outspoken and adventurous of the two, he also has another more reserved side; he has always needed his space, his time to recharge; he doesn’t have to be surrounded by people twenty-four seven. But this is really nice, and he is having a good time despite still being a tiny bit huffy about not getting to enjoy Robbe alone on their anniversary. He will just have to make up for that later.

His favourite moment, though, is when Robbe leans his temple against his as they sway to some cover version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, absentmindedly humming the melody in his ear, the two of them in their own little bubble. Sander nuzzles into his hair and inhales the soft honey scent. Out of the corner of his eye he catches his mama and her sister gazing at them with fond expressions on their faces, whispering to each other. At every family gathering it’s like this, the slightest show of affection making his mother and aunt swoon, hearts practically swirling in their eyes. He shoots them a small smile, before pressing one, two, three little kisses to Robbe’s temple, letting out a quiet chuckle.

“What?” Robbe mumbles, eyes shining and shimmering in the glow of the various lanterns and fairy lights hanging crisscrossed from the ceiling.

Feeling his eyelids droop, Sander tucks a lock behind his ear. “I love you.”

An easy smile grows on Robbe’s lips. “I love you too,” he says, barely audible over the music, just for Sander to hear, always just for Sander.

The top buttons of Robbe’s surprisingly still crispy white shirt are undone, exposing a glinting sliver of his golden necklace – a fixed part of him since before Sander had known him –, their suit jackets and bowties long since tossed away, shirtsleeves rolled up to their elbows. Sander reaches under his collar and traces the chain with a fingertip. “Don’t look, okay, but my mama and my aunt are gushing about us, _like always_. How much do you wanna bet they’re gossiping about _when the wedding bells are going to ring for us?_ ” he says, mimicking his mother’s voice.

Robbe breathes out a laugh, dropping his gaze to Sander’s cheeks, his chin, his chest, looking anywhere but into his eyes, and for a moment Sander is slightly puzzled, but then–

Oh. _Oh_.

“Robbe,” he smirks, his heart swelling. “Is that something you’ve been thinking about too?”

Sliding his hands down from where they were resting around Sander’s neck, Robbe fiddles with the edges of his shirt collar, his cheekbones painted a lovely rosy red, an expression Sander has termed ‘the fresh blooming look’, his complexion dewy and healthy like spring flowers bursting into full bloom.

“It is, isn’t it?” Sander’s smirk softens.

“I mean… Sometimes?” Robbe shrugs his shoulders, still refusing to look at him. “And a night like this,” he abstractedly waves a hand around at the other swaying figures in the dim, sparkling lights, “just makes my mind wander… Doesn’t your mind ever wander?”

Hooking a finger under Robbe’s chin, Sander tilts his face back up, and there he is again, wide chocolate eyes meeting his own meadow green. “Hi,” Sander smiles, before shooting him a teasing look. “You of all people know how my mind wanders, or more like spirals out of control.”

Robbe lets out a little guilty breath. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

And Sander can’t help kissing him, tasting berries and dessert wine and a touch of something so very sweet and familiar, _his boy_ , which sends glittery tingles through his body, all the way to his fingertips.

“It does,” he admits. “Wander…”

Truth is, he has been thinking about it more and more lately. Proposing. He actually can’t count how many times he has played with Robbe’s fingers while lying in bed late at night or early in the morning, lingering on the base of his ring finger, wondering what it will look like, _feel_ like, when there is a ring there, letting everyone know that Robbe is his and he is Robbe’s. Eventually Robbe will lace their fingers together and drowsily mumble for him to close his eyes and go to sleep, which Sander does because Robbe’s wishes are his commands.

“We _are_ going to get married one day, Robbe Ijzermans. I’m yours.” He rests his forehead against Robbe’s. “And then it’s gonna be Robbe Ijzermans-Driesen.”

It’s Robbe’s turn to smirk. “And Sander Ijzermans-Driesen?”

“And Sander Ijzermans-Driesen,” Sander nods, sighing, drunk on Robbe. “I would marry you right now if I could.”

And he only just survives the way Robbe’s eyes sweep over every little detail of his face, from the scar by his eye to the little birthmark above his lip, as if he has hung the moon and the stars in the sky. But Sander has never done anything even remotely as astonishing. He is entirely hopeless compared to Robbe.

“One day,” Robbe whispers.

_One day._

At the end of the night, Sander is dangerously close to grabbing Robbe’s wrist and hauling him back up to their room. Robbe told him he would just quickly go and say goodnight to Sander’s parents but ten minutes later they are still chatting, and Sander is at the end of his tether. Sneaking into a darker, more secluded corner, he catches Robbe’s gaze over his mum’s shoulder and, devilish as he is, brings his empty bottle of some fancy elderflower cider to his mouth. He lets the tip of his tongue swirl around the cold top in slow circles, licking over the opening, before encircling it with his lips and swallowing down on the bottleneck. He can tell Robbe loses his trail of thought, eyes fixed on Sander’s every move.

Just as Sander’s mum is about to take a look at what has caught Robbe’s undivided attention, Robbe scrambles for something to say, frantically trying to spare her the sight of her son giving a bottle a blowjob. Sander snickers at the sound of Robbe’s now slightly high-pitched voice and the pink tint that spreads in his freckled skin, and hides the bottle behind his back, schooling his face into an expression of innocence when the younger boy marches his way over.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Robbe quietly hisses.

“What?”

Robbe gives him a look. “Don’t pretend you weren’t just deepthroating that bottle because you’re impatient and wanted me to come quicker.”

Sander opens his mouth, ready with a deluge of lewd remarks.

“Don’t you even dare,” Robbe cuts him off, glaring daggers.

“Oh, baby,” Sander smirks, setting the bottle on the floor and inching closer until their mouths are merely a breath apart. “That was hardly deepthroating. How about we go back up to our room and I’ll show you my real skills, hm?”

“You’re insufferable.” Robbe’s stern look softens almost reluctantly. “But also very tempting.”

Triumphant and spurred on by their talk on the dancefloor, Sander mumbles against the hinge of his jaw, “Pretend it’s our wedding night. The party is over and it’s just you and me, finally alone. What would you do?”

Robbe nuzzles against his cheek, smiling. “I’d take a bath.”

Not quite the answer he expected, Sander looks at him. “You’d take a bath?”

“Yeah,” Robbe nods. “A nice, warm bath with lots of bubbles and champagne and you.”

And isn’t that a thought? Sander’s mind provides him with the image of his brown-eyed muse sprawled in the grand bathtub upstairs, his skin wet and glistening, drinking champagne straight from the bottle.

“Well, I’d sure hope it’d be with me since it’s our wedding night.”

Robbe gently nudges him. “Stop teasing.”

“Never.“ Sander catches his hands and intertwines their fingers between their chests. “It’s one of the greatest pleasures of my life.”

“You don’t say,” Robbe deadpans.

Sander bites his lip and glances at an ice bucket on a table nearby, a single unopened bottle of champagne nestled in the ice cubes, then back at Robbe, contemplating.

“Come,” he says then, tugging Robbe along as he knicks the bottle and heads for the elevator.

“What are you doing?” Robbe laughs, a little bewildered.

Sander presses the button and turns to him. “You wanted champagne, so I’m getting you champagne.”

When Robbe just looks at him, Sander breathes out a soft snort. “Robbe, it’s already been paid for. It’s not like I’m facing ten years in prison.” Robbe rolls his eyes at that. “It’d be a waste if we didn’t drink it.” Just then, the door to the elevator slides open, and Sander very gentlemanly gestures for Robbe to enter. “After you, my love.”

In the small compact space, Sander backs Robbe up against the mirrored wall. “Luckily, we’re staying on one of the top floors, so there’s plenty of time for us to have a little fun with no one watching.”

Robbe pulls Sander in by the lapels of his jacket and points to the top corner of the elevator. “Only that security camera and the hotel staff.”

“Nobody is watching, Robbe.”

“You never know, Sander.”

Sander looks straight at the little camera, smirks, and puts down the bottle. “Then let’s give our audience a show.”

He allows Robbe just enough time to exhale a, “Sander…”, before he slots their lips together, hard and bruising, and oh how he has been waiting for this all fucking night. There is really only so much those respectable pecks can do to quench his longing. He lives for the way Robbe flings his arms around his neck and how, when Sander presses his thigh in between his legs, he bucks forward on instinct.

“Do you know how hard it’s been for me to keep my hands to myself when you’ve been walking around all night looking this fucking sexy?” Robbe mumbles, dragging his mouth up the sharp line of Sander’s jaw, which makes Sander guide his hips against his own. But just as Robbe is about to rut against his leg, the shrill ding of the elevator crushes the moment, and Robbe throws his head back, groaning frustratedly, and the sight of him finally beginning to lose his composure sends a thrill through Sander. His lips are wet and slick, his eyes almost black, and _holy fuck, he’s pretty_ , Sander thinks.

“Come on, baby.” He grabs the bottle and drapes his arm over Robbe’s shoulders, tucking him into his side and leading them down the hallway. As they approach their room, he asks him, “You have the key card, right?”

Robbe starts patting himself down, checking each and every pocket in his clothes, and then he checks them again, before looking up at Sander, wide-eyed and a little sheepish. “Uhm…”

“Robbe, no… Do you not have it? Did you lose it?” Sander’s stomach already sinks at the horrible prospect of having to go _all the way_ back down to the lobby and ask the receptionist for another key, and then _all the way_ back up again. It’s going to take _ages_ , and his body can’t bear another second away from Robbe’s.

But then a grin slowly grows on Robbe’s face, and he produces the card from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Of course I have it. But that would’ve happened if you had been in charge, though.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Sander says, light-hearted, but rolls his eyes nonetheless, before circling an arm around both of Robbe’s from behind and pulling him close against his torso, making it that much harder for Robbe to unlock the door.

“I can’t stand you,” Robbe sighs, fumbling to get the sensor to scan the card with the limited mobility that Sander is allowing him. When he finally manages to press down the door handle, he turns around in Sander’s arms, a cute little smile on his face, and asks, as if this is their very first date and not their seventh year together. “Do you want to come inside?”

And it’s just so easy, right there for the taking.

Bending down and letting his teeth brush and nip the smooth skin above the younger boy’s shirt collar, Sander mumbles, “Trust me, I want to come inside. I really, _really_ want to come inside,” which earns him a slightly uncoordinated slap to his chest.

Robbe tugs on his wrist, but just as they’re about to step inside the room, something dawns on Sander, _a very important part of one’s wedding night_ , because he is a hopeless romantic and has turned Robbe into one too, and he quickly pulls him back. “Wait, wait, wait.”

He holds the champagne against Robbe’s breastbone, prompting him to take it, and Robbe very confusedly wraps his hand around the cold neck. “Wha–“

That’s all he gets out before Sander picks him up bridal style, one arm under his knees, the other around his back, and Robbe gasps and clings onto his shoulders, the glass of the bottle like ice against the side of Sander’s throat. _That’s gonna be fun opening_ , Sander thinks, all the swinging around more than likely going to drench the floor with fizzling foam later. And he can’t fucking wait.

He feels Robbe laugh against his cheek, his breath warm and sweet, and just as he turns his face to kiss him, Robbe whispers to him, “You’re ridiculous… And so fucking cute,” and presses his lips to his temple, forehead, cheek, eyebrow, wherever he can reach.

Sander tries his hardest to steer around chairs, lamps, and various, totally unnecessary side tables with extravagant bouquets of flowers, and only once does the point of one of Robbe’s shoes make contact with an expensive looking vase, which has them freezing on the spot as it teeters dangerously close to the edge before settling, thank goodness, without shedding even a single petal.

“Wait, go back,” Robbe commands, gesturing at the flowers as Sander is halfway to the bathroom. He smiles at Sander’s puzzled expression while he plucks out all of the roses, collecting the stems in his free hand. “You’ll see…”

But Sander already has an inkling and it’s making his heart flutter.

In the dimly lit bathroom, he gently sets Robbe down on the floor beside the raised platform that carries the white bathtub, their shoes clicking against the marble. Robbe carefully places the bottle and the roses on the counter by the sink and shrugs off his jacket.

“Here,” Sander offers, tugging off his own too. He tosses the jackets on the bed, the bedspread rumpled from when they had thrown themselves on it upon their arrival, and makes his way back to the bathroom and the sound of running water hitting porcelain.

Robbe is studying the plethora of complimentary toiletries on the long glass shelf under the mirror, and it makes Sander lean against the doorframe, just appreciating how his shirt fits so neatly over his back and shoulders, his trousers clinging around his lean legs, the curve of him, and Sander’s mouth waters. Closing the distance between them, he hooks his chin over Robbe’s shoulder and places his palm on his stomach, spreading out his fingers, and peeks at the small plastic bottles in Robbe’s hands. Robbe holds one to Sander’s nose for him to smell. Knitting his brows together at the peculiar fragrance for a bubble bath, Sander angles it a bit to read the label.

“ _Prosecco_ Bubble Bath. What the hell?”

“I take that as a ‘no’,” Robbe chuckles.

“I mean, unless you want to reek of booze until we get home tomorrow.”

Craning his neck to catch Sander’s eye, Robbe shoots him a look. “I think that game is over seeing as you just _stole_ the world’s biggest and probably most expensive bottle of champagne.”

Choosing to ignore that, Sander takes an inhale of the other scent, getting whiffs of milk and honey and almonds, and it reminds him of the sweetness of Robbe’s warm, sleep-soft body in the morning. “I like this one,” he says softly in Robbe’s ear, kissing his cheek and lets him go pour the liquid into the quickly filling tub.

“Will you give me the flowers?” Robbe asks, standing on the raised platform that makes him a head taller than Sander. Sander places them in his palm and, with a heart that beats entirely for him, watches Robbe as he plucks the petals and scatters them in the water.

“You know you have to pick them all out again before draining the tub, right?” he teases.

“So you do actually have some sense of responsibility,” Robbe shoots back in retaliation, voice mirthful. “Would you mind putting that to use at home too? _Without_ me having to bribe you?”

When it comes to chores and housework, everything in Sander resists. If he is being told to tidy the kitchen or vacuum the flat it feels just as insufferable as hearing nails scratching chalkboard. The only bearable part about it is Robbe’s promises of sweet things for afterwards, so Sander always ends up doing what Robbe says, although not without half-hearted protests and some serious eyerolling, only because he knows there’s going to be an angel in loose sweatpants and woolly socks and a worn hoodie – _his_ hoodie – waiting for him on the couch among pillows and fuzzy blankets.

“You do know that your bribery kinda plays a big part in why I always make such a fuss about housework, right?”

Robbe gasps in mock astonishment, “You’re _kidding,_ ” to which Sander flips him off and mumbles a slightly huffy, “Idiot.”

Shutting off the golden faucets, Robbe turns and looks down at him from where he is standing on the marble platform, like a meticulously carved statue that Sander could spend hours studying, admiring, reproducing in charcoal and blue ink and oil paints – which he has on various occasions, some involving much less clothing than others. He frames Sander’s face with his palm, fingers stroking his cheeks, and like a puppy Sander rests his chin on Robbe’s sternum, gazing up at him, and a bit unsure why, he settles his lips into a slight pout. Maybe because he knows Robbe always kisses it.

“Turns out bribing you pays off pretty well for me, too,” Robbe says, voice low.

The room falls roaringly silent, the air shifting and thickening, tension stretching between them; it has Sander reaching around Robbe’s waist and Robbe following him blindly.

“Strip, Ijzermans,” he says.

Robbe raises an eyebrow, audacious. “Undress me, Driesen.”

Smirking, Sander digs his fingers into Robbe’s hips and crowds all up in his space, their lips brushing, mere millimetres from slotting together but never actually closing the gap. “So it’s like that, huh? You getting all defiant with me on our fake wedding night.”

Leaning in, Robbe presses his lips to Sander’s, featherlight and barely there, and just when Sander is about to take his lower lip between his teeth, Robbe pulls back, voice honey sweet. “I’m waiting, baby.”

And oh how Sander loves him like this – teasing, unrelenting, and so fucking sexy, a challenge he can’t ever say no to.

“Then I guess I’ll have to get to work,” he says, slipping his hands around his waist and tugging Robbe’s shirt out of his trousers, fingers crawling under to feel the smooth skin of the small of his back.

Robbe smiles triumphantly. “I guess you will.”

Slowly, Sander makes his way down the row of buttons, fingers brushing the gradually exposed skin of Robbe’s chest and stomach, the golden angel revealed bit by bit, the marks from his lips and teeth in full bloom. But then Robbe dips in, the little devil he is, and finds the sweet spot just below his ear, the one that reduces Sander to a whimpering mess, his eyes rolling back, and, sure enough, all of his coordination is lost.

“Robbe…” he sighs, grabbing handfuls of his shirt, instinctively tilting his head to make room. “You’re making this very hard.”

“Making what hard?” Robbe whispers. “Undressing me?” He kisses down the line of Sander’s jaw until he reaches his chin. “Or you?”

He is so near that Sander can’t resist sneaking in a kiss, resisting the urge to deepen it, knowing he won’t get anything done if he does. “Both.”

“Good,” Robbe exhales, pleased.

Sander wants to just rip the rest of Robbe’s shirt open, to send the buttons flying, but he knows he will never hear the end of it. So he controls his _rapidly_ growing want to the best of his abilities, until, finally, the white cotton falls open, Robbe’s defined abdomen on full show. Sander can’t resist placing a wet, open-mouthed kiss on his sharp collarbone, before tugging the sleeves down Robbe’s arms and wrists, letting it drop to the floor around his feet in a rumpled mess.

Robbe looks down at himself, then back up at Sander who is practically drooling. “Am I naked yet?”

“Jesus, can’t I just admire your _rock-hard_ abs for a moment?” Sander smiles, running all ten of his fingers down Robbe’s stomach and over the waistline of his trousers, watching goosebumps rise on his perfect skin. He toys with the black button, before popping it open with one hand while sliding down the zipper with the other, slow, slow, agonisingly slow, and Sander can _feel_ the way this is affecting him. When the zipper is halfway down, he gets impatient and slips his fingers beneath the elastic band of Robbe’s boxers.

“Mm-mm.” Robbe shakes his head, showing willpower like Sander has never seen before, and it’s very nearly driving him insane. “Shoes first.”

Sander breathes out a soft laugh at his unfinished job. “That’s gotta be uncomfortable for you, love. Please let me take care of it.” But Robbe places his hands on his shoulders, making him crouch down, and Sander just gives in to his wishes, because when does he not. He can be _spineless_ when it comes to Robbe.

On his way down, he drags his lips over Robbe’s stomach, planting a string of kisses on his still clothed leg, and begins unlacing the shiny shoes. “Is this just an excuse to get me on my knees for you?”

Combing through Sander’s brown locks, Robbe says, “I don’t need an excuse. You usually do it all by yourself without me having to say a word.”

“Some nerve you’ve got,” Sander mutters under his breath and feels Robbe fingers curl in his hair, just on the right side of painful. Pulling off both his shoes and socks and tossing them to the side, he squeezes the back of Robbe’s thigh and stands back up. “There you go, princess.”

And Sander has to take a step back to absorb the sight of him – shirtless, angel pendant sparkling at him, his trousers half-undone, sharp v-lines disappearing beneath the black fabric, the tip of him peeking up at the waistband of his underwear, looking like the rest of Sander’s life –, and Sander could eat him for breakfast (which he did just this morning), and lunch, dinner, dessert, and every snack in between. Instinctively, he lets his tongue skim his lower lip, shaking his head in wonder.

The corner of Robbe’s mouth twitches into a lopsided grin, looking like a cocky bastard well aware that he’s a stunner. “You’re obsessing over me again, aren’t you?”

Sander wants to laugh because when did he ever stop? He hooks his forefingers into Robbe’s belt loops and pulls him closer. “You’re fucking gorgeous. How fucking lucky am I?”

Robbe breathes out a chuckle. “You swear too much.”

“No, I fucking don’t.”

Something between a quiet gasp and a yelp escapes Robbe’s parted lips when their bodies collide, and if Sander was doubting his effect on him before, he definitely isn’t anymore. Determined to finish what he started, he wedges his hand between them and unzips him completely, before peeling down the smooth fabric of his trousers along with his boxers, revealing inch by delicious inch him.

Stepping out, Robbe flings his clothes away with his foot, and then he is all lean muscles and curly hair and coral cheekbones. Sander wants to touch him so bad, wants to feel his bony hips, his tiny waist, his strong back, wants to sink his teeth into the tender porcelain skin of his inner thighs.

When Robbe’s fingers smooth Sander’s hair back and trail down his cheeks, mapping out his face, doe eyes studying him, quietly and lovingly mumbling, “You’re so beautiful, Sander,” Sander wants to fucking cry.

“Robbe….”

“Mmm.”

Sander swallows, his voice much more pleading than he would have liked, but what can he do. “I really want to have sex with you.”

Robbe kisses him, his lips scorching, hands running over Sander’s still shirt-clad shoulders down to his biceps. “Not yet,” he whispers.

When nothing but cold air is left on his lips, Sander very nearly whines and stomps his foot on the ground like a child. “Are you really depriving me of sex on our anniversary _and_ our pretend wedding night?”

“I said not _yet_ ,” Robbe snickers. “And it’s technically not our anniversary anymore.”

“That awful fact is all the more reason not to deprive me…”

His vocabulary crumbles and withers away, his mind blanking as Robbe sinks into the bath, the hot water and glistening foam and red rose petals hugging and swallowing and gracing his skin. Resting his arms along the sides of the tub, he watches Sander, sharp and fox-like, his gaze travelling up his body, taking his time. Then he meets his eyes; Sander knows there isn’t much green left in them, his pupils so blown. Robbe is fully aware of what he is doing to him, knows he has him wrapped around his finger when he says, “Now strip for me, baby.”

And Sander is helpless, so fucking done for, head over heels in love.

There is nothing remotely sensual about his undressing; he fumbles with the seemingly never-ending row of buttons down his shirt while simultaneously trying to toe off his still tied shoes, the desperation to get in with Robbe making him butterfingered and uncoordinated.

“Always so elegant,” Robbe comments and tosses his head back in laughter as Sander curses and stumbles and struggles.

His shirt goes half on the marble platform, half on the floor, one of his shoes on the counter by the sink, the other on the doorstep to the bedroom, and he couldn’t care less where his trousers and underwear land. Grabbing the champagne bottle, he steps into the heavenly heat of the water, groaning as it engulfs him. The calm scent of the bubbles melts his entire body, the hunger he felt mere moments ago dimming into a nice, comfortable, constant warmth swirling somewhere deep in his stomach, one he knows is going to make him feel so good later.

The tub is big enough for the both of them to sit with their legs outstretched, but obviously they don’t need that much room; they could have the biggest bed in existence, and they would still cling to each other, happily taking up just the tiniest, tiniest bit of space. Without word, they move through the foam and flower petals, closer, until their bent knees touch.

Removing the golden foil from the cork, Sander flashes Robbe a crooked smile, and Robbe knows exactly what he is about to do, is already reaching out in the hopes of prying the bottle from his hands, the horror clear on his face. But before he manages to get his hands on it, Sander gives it a few vigorous shakes, because he is impish and chaotic and enjoys pushing Robbe’s buttons a little. _I think your love language is being annoying_ , Robbe has told him multiple times with long-suffering sighs when Sander just won’t stop trying to get his attention when he really needs to get work done, or when he reels off the cheesiest most embarrassing lines, hauling Robbe down onto his lap and kissing him all over his face until he gets his will. With a loud pop, Sander sends the cork flying, the foam splashing like a fountain into the bathwater and onto the floor.

“Ugh, Sander,” Robbe complains, before a giggle tumbles from his lips.

Sander gently but mischievously taps the bottleneck against Robbe’s forehead, pretending to clink glasses. “For a life as beautiful as you. Cheers.”

As he takes a long swig, the champagne sparkling down his throat, Robbe runs his fingers through the shorter locks behind his ear, letting his hand stay there as Sander passes him the bottle. A drop of the sticky liquid runs down the corner of Robbe’s mouth to his chin, and Sander catches it with his thumb, licking it off. He doesn’t put any thought to it but Robbe’s chocolate gaze settles on his lips, looking so enthralled as if his brain just short-circuited for a moment, and it’s so endearing.

Taking his chin between his fingers, he brings Robbe to his lips, the now foam-coated bottle nearly slipping out of Robbe’s grasp, and Sander whispers a, “Cutie,” between their kisses. It’s so sickeningly sweet and he can’t get enough, even after seven years.

He gives Robbe’s knees a light squeeze, his heart feeling at least ten times its normal size. “Happy belated anniversary, Robbe. I wish I could have kept you to myself all day, but this is nice too,” he smirks.

Smiling, Robbe passes back the bottle. “Happy belated anniversary, Sander. I had a really good time today, though, despite it not being in bed with you.”

“I could tell.” Sander pokes his nose. “You blend in so well with my weird family.”

“It’s probably because I’ve been with the weirdest of them all for seven years. I’m well-trained.”

And Sander can’t even be offended, because it almost floors him when Robbe says those specific two words out loud. It’s stupid, really. He has been thinking about this day for the past many months, for god’s sake, he _knows_ they have been together for seven years.

“Wow,” he exhales, the breath of a laugh he lets out doing a poor job of masking the pesky insecurities he just can’t ever seem to shake. “I can’t believe you’ve put up with me for that long.”

“Sander…” Robbe inches impossibly closer, one of his bent legs wedging between Sander’s. “ _I_ can’t believe you’ve put up with _me_ for that long.” He looks down for a second, at Sander’s collarbones and shoulders, a sad little smile on his face. “You know, sometimes I still look at you and think, ‘The softest most loving and handsome and _wonderful_ man the world has ever known is right here with me. And he fell for the most insignificant person in existence.’”

Sander grabs Robbe’s hand and kisses the tender inside of his wrist, before pressing his palm to his cheek, leaning into it. “Robbe, don’t say that. It’s breaking my heart.” He feels the pad of Robbe’s thumb smoothing over his cheekbone. “There’s _nothing_ insignificant about you. You’re the fucking epitome of love and warmth and empathy and bravery and calm, and I could go on and on. You’re everything I’m not and everything I need. You’re just everything. Without even trying.”

With a pinch in his chest, Sander thinks back to the summer before that fateful October when, behind a locked bathroom door after yet another fight with his girlfriend, he rinsed the bleach out of his hair, just wanting to be someone else, the sadness all-consuming, too young to be feeling everything and nothing all at once. _Why is it so hard for you to just act fucking normal_ , she would say, the words embedding themselves deeper and deeper into his head, his brain chanting _you’re not normal, you’re not normal, you’re not normal,_ deeming him unfit for any human relationships.

Until Robbe happened, making him realise that he was fit for one human, a perfect fit for a perfect human. Robbe lets him be the whirlwind of a person that he is and loves him for it, and Sander can’t count the number of tears he has shed in relief.

They get each other, and Sander thinks the reason why is because both of them had been broken stars in dire need of getting pierced back together; the melancholy in Robbe’s eyes had been crystal clear to Sander the very second they locked gazes. Robbe had later told him how, at that time, he could drink half a bottle of pure vodka and still be able to walk and talk as if sober, he had been drowning his sorrows that often. _It was escapism, the sole thing that could numb everything for a while_. _It sounds dumb but at times it felt like my only friend,_ he had whispered against Sander’s collarbone in the safety of the late-night January darkness of his childhood bedroom. Their bodies had been tangled and wrapped in Robbe’s blue-squared bedsheets as they really got to know one another, as they worked on their communication. Sander had buried his lips in his hair, tightening his arms around his slim but strong figure. _It doesn’t sound dumb. Nothing you say sounds dumb._

Everything had gone so fast with them; they both knew they should have slowed down. There was no rush. But they had taken each other by storm, bless them. Sander had fallen in love in the span of two minutes, Robbe’s still slightly sleepy doe eyes making him weak at the knees as they blinked at him in bewilderment at his peculiar inquiries so early in the morning. Then, in the aisles of the near empty supermarket, hanging off of the shopping cart, Robbe had looked so breathtakingly fascinated by him, and Sander had seen a tiny invite to happiness, one that told him, _it’s time_.

Only weeks later, in Robbe’s small single bed barely able to fit them both, was Sander beginning to understand just how neglected Robbe had been, how neglected they _both_ had been, two boys with a lethal lack of love and acceptance and affection. _I love you_ , he had told him, soft and so sincere, which had made Robbe sob warm tears into his neck.

Oh how much they have loved and cried and laughed since then. Robbe barely drinks anymore, enjoys the buzz of being tipsy, sure, but doesn’t feel the need to go any further; Sander has been a proud brunette since the summer he chopped off the icy white, hasn’t had the wish to be someone else; their smiles are bright and genuine and healthy, and when Sander looks at Robbe, touches him, kisses him, Robbe actually _shines_.

Sander grazes Robbe’s jaw and cups his neck with his soapy hand, smirking. “And you’re hot as fuck. Even hotter than me, and that says a lot.”

That makes Robbe laugh, and when he presses his lips against the corner of Sander’s mouth, warm and lingering, whispering a soft, “Dork,” Sander can breathe again.

“Only for you,” he mumbles in Robbe’s ear, dropping a kiss to its shell. “I adore you. You’ve always been a masterpiece,” which makes Robbe playfully flick water at him, and Sander knows it’s his way of telling him that he is getting overwhelmed, that he can’t handle any more praise. In that regard, he can still be so boyish, reminding Sander of all the pillows Robbe would smack to the side of his head in the early days of their budding relationship when he just couldn’t resist telling him how dreamy and dazzling he was. But Robbe has also grown a lot, and now, when they’re naked and sweaty and Sander reminds him of his godlike good looks, he positively preens, his cheeks glowing, and Sander _loves him_. Unconditionally.

Robbe can get anyone he wants; he has people standing in line for him, and Sander knows it. He sees the way people look at him, boys and girls alike, and he recognises himself in them, the not-so-subtle attempts at flirting, the _pining_. Although Sander wells with pride that the world has opened its eyes to the beauty that Robbe is, he can’t pretend he doesn’t sometimes feel a small twinge in his chest when people get a little too close to his man. On his lowest of lowest days, when the world is bleak, his edges are frayed, and his scrambled brain makes him cry over everything, Sander still wonders how and why Robbe ever fell for him, how and why he is still with him, the malicious voice in the back of his head whispering that Robbe deserves better, someone who isn’t so high-maintenance, so demanding, someone who doesn’t take up so much fucking space. When it tells him that he is going to leave him any day now, it feels like all the air is sucked out of him. But then Robbe just crawls into bed with him, curls his fingers in his shirt, nestles into him and falls asleep, in the middle of Sander’s chaos, an innocent kitten trusting the frightening wolf with its life. And as the minutes go by, Sander’s thoughts are gradually silenced and replaced with the colour of Robbe’s curly hair and the scent of his skin and the sound of his breathing. He will align their chests and watch Robbe sleep for a bit, running his nail across the surface of the golden pendant over Robbe’s sleep shirt, feeling homesick for him even though he is right there. Eventually and against his will, his eyelids flutter closed, depriving him of the sight of a freckled nose and thick lashes. But it’s okay; Sander knows the most heavenly brown eyes will be watching him when he wakes up.

The thing is, Robbe is absolutely oblivious of how sought-after he is, thinking people are just being nice and friendly, which is the reason why Sander lets them flirt. He always recognises the heartbreak painted across the faces of all of Robbe’s admirer’s, feeling a spark of selfish joy without a fleck of shame, his slight possessiveness quenched when all Robbe has eyes for is _him_ , when Robbe gives him all of his attention even when ten other people are asking for it, when he kisses him so unreservedly and undistractedly. And maybe Sander amps it up a little, making it glaringly obvious who the beautiful, curly-haired skater boy belongs to.

Robbe won’t leave him. Nobody can steal him away, _because_ _no one can love me like you_ , the words flowing so gently and so earnestly from Robbe’s mouth while spread out in their bedsheets, at their most passionate, or curled up on their couch, a teary-eyed Sander nuzzled into his chest.

There are better, more perfect people in the world, people who have their lives together, hoping to sneak their way into Bambi-eyed Robbe’s heart. _But they will have to get through me first_ , Sander thinks, _and God fucking help them if they ever dare try_.

Because he knows they are _it_.

Sander looks at Robbe and tries to comprehend that this is life: sharing expensive champagne and endless kisses and childish water fights with the man of his dreams at three am. Robbe is all glistening skin and tender eyes, and Sander wants to make him his for all time.

The thing is, Sander can plan and plan and plan some more, but then the corners of Robbe’s mouth will lift in that sweet little smile reserved for him only and so effortlessly erase Sander’s every last thought.

And there is no better time than right now, Sander realises. There has never been a better time.

Sander links their fingers together over their knees and looks at him, demeanour serious, gaze still soft. “Robbe.”

“What’s wrong?” Robbe asks, sensing the sudden change of atmosphere, and it almost makes Sander laugh because absolutely nothing is wrong, in fact, it has never been more right.

He traces Robbe’s knuckles and asks the question that has been etched into the back of his throat since that first October morning. “Robbe, will you marry me?”

For a few moments, Robbe just blinks, eyes flickering intently between his own, before a small dimpled smile grows on his lips. “Is this the champagne talking?”

Breathing out a soft laugh, Sander shakes his head. “No. It’s Sander talking.” He cards his wet fingertips through Robbe’s fringe, tucking a few silky strands behind his ear. “You’re the love of my life. I can’t imagine me without you, I don’t want to ever imagine it, not even for a sliver of a second.” 

“Oh my god,” Robbe whispers ever so gently, his whole expression sobering up. He squeezes Sander’s hand bone-crushingly tight as big glossy tears well in his beautiful coffee-dark eyes.

As the words leave Sander’s lips again, “Will you marry me, Robbe?”, his own vision blurs too, and he chokes back the intense feeling flowing through him. He already knows the answer, wants to believe it has been a given since the day they met. Every day for the past many years Robbe has kissed it into his skin, laughed it against his lips, moaned it into his ear, a silent assurance that they will be together for the rest of their days, _always, always them_.

When Sander brushes his thumbs over Robbe’s cheeks, catching the warm, salty trickles, he gets his answer. Wrapping his fingers around Sander’s wrist, Robbe exhales it, gentle and watery, “Yes. I will.”

It’s nothing like Sander has ever imagined it; there is no rooftop or twinkling city below them, no flickering candlelight. No white suits. His heart isn’t beating frantically out of his chest, his hands aren’t shaky. Instead, it’s quiet and simple and so ferociously loving.

“Is this the champagne talking?” Sander says through the lump in his throat, repeating Robbe’s words.

Robbe’s puffy lower lip quivers slightly. “No. It’s Robbe talking. It’s definitely Robbe talking. I will marry you. You know I will.”

And Sander surges forward, has to taste the words, has to swallow them to make sure they are real, that this isn’t just a perfect dream that his brain would be cruel enough to wake him up from at any minute now. But it’s real.

_It’s real._

He drowns Robbe in kisses, the salt of his steadily flowing tears sharp on his tongue. Then a realisation weaves its way through his spontaneity and fuzzy mind, making him pull back slightly.

“I… I don’t have a ring,” he begins almost apologetically, eyes meeting Robbe’s glossy ones. “I haven’t even been down on one knee.”

But Robbe just looks at him, fond and heavy-lidded, brushing the tip of his nose against Sander’s. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve never been one to abide by the rules, anyway. Always so full of surprises.”

 _How is this absolute angel mine?_ Sander thinks, eternally grateful.

When Robbe brings Sander’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles, Sander suddenly becomes aware of the band around his own forefinger, the ring he has kept wearing because Robbe likes it, and _of course_. It seems to dawn on Robbe then, too, and he breathes out a sweet and tearful laugh as Sander tugs it off his finger, the silver wet and shiny.

“Until I get you a real one,” Sander says, a bit sheepish, and the adoration in Robbe’s teary gaze is almost too much for him to handle. Taking his left hand, Sander asks one more time, “Will you marry me, Robbe?” and adds a soft, little, “Please?”

Robbe takes in a sharp, almost involuntary inhale and a crystal-clear droplet falls from his dark lashes onto his cheek and into the gleaming bubbles. Then he repeats, just as certain and sincere as the first time, “Yes, I will, Sander.”

As Sander slips his ring down the length of Robbe’s ring finger, settling it right where it belongs, Robbe sucks his lower lip into his mouth, and Sander knows that he’s trying to stop himself from full on balling his eyes out. He fumbles to cradle Sander’s face, in desperate search of his lips, and Sander feels him tremble as they move in sync, Sander scooting back against the porcelain of the tub, Robbe settling in his lap, knees on each side of his hips.

“Promise?” Sander whispers against him, because his brain still believes this is too good to be true, to which Robbe exhales the sweetest sounding, “I promise. You and me, one hundred percent forever–”

“In every universe,” Sander finishes, the memories welling in his chest. “I remember.”

He had loved him so devastatingly much then, and he loves him so earth-shatteringly much now, seven years later. And how overwhelming it is to love someone so wildly. It stuns Sander sometimes, his mind trying to disentangle all of his feelings, and he has _a lot_. Robbe always notices at once, notices how he falls quiet, how he can’t seem to physically tear his eyes away from him. He will then cup Sander’s cheek, tap a finger against the side of his head, and say, _Come back to me,_ and Sander will silently lower his forehead onto Robbe’s, the corners of his lips tugging up in a small smile.

For a bit, Robbe fiddles with the familiar, scratched ring that is just a tiny bit big for his slender finger. “When you were just being nice to the weird blond boy who scanned your face in a supermarket, and now he’s going to be your husband,” he jokingly muses, resting his palms flat against Sander’s chest, love-drunk.

_Husband. He is going to be Robbe’s husband. And Robbe will be his._

He twines his arms around the small of Robbe’s back, because he won’t stay upright if he doesn’t hold on to his strong, solid frame. “Oh, you were _just being_ _nice_? Tell that to your heart eyes and blushing cheeks.”

“Shut up,” Robbe weakly protests, “I wasn’t that obvious.”

“Oh, sweetie…” Sander sighs, fond and smug, and is rewarded with a slightly flustered smile in return.

A really specific feeling blooms in Sander’s chest and spreads all the way through every little crevice of his being at the thought of how far they have come. They aren’t sixteen and eighteen anymore; Sander is in his mid-twenties now, and whenever his joints crack or he keeps replying, “Huh?” to what Robbe says, it’s apparently _not_ because he has a bad habit of sitting in the same position for hours at a time, or because Robbe slurs unintelligible fucking gibberish sometimes. No, no. Robbe enjoys telling him it’s because he is getting _old_. Sander will then manhandle him onto the bed and prove his stamina and youthfulness.

But sometimes there are shy smiles, bashful glances, and eager clumsiness as if they’re still two teenage boys with giant, all-consuming crushes. Sander thinks he will always crush hard.

“I can’t wait to turn into a boring married couple who goes to bed at 9.30 and only has sex once a week, on Wednesdays,” Robbe says then.

Although that sleep schedule will undoubtedly do Sander very good, he looks at Robbe, horrified by the second half of that sentence. “ _Once a week?!_ ”

“Okay, twice a week then,” Robbe chuckles, smoothing Sander’s soft, wavy fringe away from his forehead.

Sander knows it’s about the safety of a routine for Robbe, something he has lacked for a big part of his young life. But twice a week just won’t do.

“You’re in for a big surprise, Robin. And why is it always Wednesdays anyway? Like, that is the least sexy day of the week.”

“Who doesn’t need a pick-me-up in the middle of the week?” Robbe shrugs. “Though, I think Mondays are the least sexy. Monday mornings…” He shivers exaggeratedly to get his point across.

“I mean…” Sander says, tongue in cheek. “That’s not what your body told me this week. Your arched back and your sleepy moans, the way you came twi–

“Sander…” Robbe mutters.

“…that was a very sexy Monday morning in my opinion.”

Robbe looks at him, water droplets in his hair, remnants of tears still glinting in his dark lashes, Bambi eyes sparkling in competition with his golden chain in the dim light. “Will you please make love to me?”

And Sander lets out a quiet laugh at the stark contrast between his courteous query and the growing desire between his legs. “So polite you are all of a sudden.”

“Well." Robbe trails a fingertip down Sander’s bicep. “Someone just asked me to marry him, and I believe I just bossed that someone around quite a bit, so he deserves to be treated a little nicer.”

Kissing the traces of smile lines at the corner of Robbe’s mouth, Sander mumbles, voice low and silky, “I love it when you get bossy. You can boss me around all you want.”

Robbe presses himself closer, a light layer of glistening foam and champagne water coating his chest, a few rose petals adorning the base of his throat and curve of his shoulder, the ends of his curly hair sticking to the wet skin of his neck, eyelids oily and dawn-coloured, softly whispering his familiar, “Fuck me, Sander,” and he looks like an absolute dream, everything Sander has ever wanted but never thought he was worthy of actually having. But he has him. He has him forever.

“Oh my, look at you, baby,” Sander breathes, hands finding him, all of him. “So fucking pretty. And all mine.”

“All yours,” Robbe says, sinking onto him slowly, and it sends a shared shiver through them.

Sander knows every square inch of Robbe’s body, knows the little, almost invisible birthmark on his right hipbone, like a dot of raw umber from the tiniest paintbrush in Sander’s collection; he knows that when he lets his teeth nip at a very specific spot at the base of his neck, a nerve tickles in Robbe’s little toe; he knows that if he tangles his hand in the hair at Robbe’s nape while they’re kissing, the most delicate little moan will vibrate against his lips, and it’s _magical_.

His every sense is soaked in Robbe as he rocks into him; his honey scent, the warm, velvety feeling of him where they’re connected, his lush whimpers, the view of his gleaming collarbones, a rose petal stuck to one of them, the sugary taste of his tongue.

When Sander sighs his name into his shoulder, Robbe tosses his head back, and Sander dips in, pressing a trail of filthy, open-mouthed kisses down the line of his damp throat, licking and sucking and nibbling at his fluttering pulse, making Robbe fucking _purr_ , and Sander thinks, _I’ll protect you with my life_.

The silver around Robbe’s finger glints at him as Robbe strokes himself, the water sloshing between them, Robbe’s abdomen tight and sleek and muscular, and Sander nearly climaxes right then and there, having never seen a sight so mouth-watering.

“Fuck, baby,” he exhales, dazed, cupping Robbe’s jaw and slowing down their pace. Robbe nuzzles against his hand, eyes black, encircled by a miniscule ring of deep brown, his glistening lips seeking Sander’s thumb, syrupy voice humming around it when Sander pushes into his hot, wet mouth.

“Such a good boy,” Sander praises, so fucking weak as Robbe’s torrid tongue laps at him.

Robbe’s giggle vibrates against his finger. “I’m not a dog, you know.”

And Sander bursts out a bright laugh, slightly embarrassed by some of the things his yearning makes him say, which definitely isn’t very rebel-like of him; honestly, though, he is more than fine with being a giant softie, more than fine with showing how in love he is, especially right now since he just got _engaged_. Laughing with Robbe during sex ranks very high on the list of Sander’s favourite things, and as Robbe pulls off of his thumb and slots their lips together, grinning into it, he can’t help mumbling a tender _I love you_ , happier than he has ever been. Robbe very nearly liquifies in his hold, their sweaty foreheads coming to rests against one another.

“Sander,” he says then, rolling his hips insistently. “Harder.” And Sander gives him what he wants, of course he gives him what he wants.

They make love and make love and make love, all wrapped up in each other, continuing under the shower spray when the bath gets too cold, drunk on wandering hands, the champagne long since abandoned. When the clock nears the very early hours of the morning, their stomachs feel fuzzy, their legs trembly, and Robbe’s creamy skin is stained in crimson, his hips graced with darkening fingerprints from when Sander took him from behind.

Robbe clings to him, fingers digging into Sander’s biceps, and as the aftershocks of his orgasm ripple through him, fresh new diamond tears spring in his eyes, and Sander _loves him, loves him, loves him_ , so much his chest physically hurts.

“C’mere,” he breathes, reaching around him and Robbe reaches back, is always reaching back, burying his face in the crook of Sander’s neck. Sander squeezes him extra, extra tight, feeling warm trickles flow down his own cheeks and onto Robbe’s shoulder. He presses his lips to the curve of it, lingering, voice watery and choked up. “We’re gonna be two crying messes for the next long while, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” Robbe sniffles. “Happy tears. You make me so happy.”

They stand there in the stillness of the bathroom, the shower spray turned off, arms around each other’s goosebump filled frames, helping one another back down to earth. Despite Sander’s body being filled to the brim with love and serenity and everything good, he feels his stomach begin to demand real nutrition, not satisfied with how he just wants to live off of the salt of Robbe’s skin. As if he has read Sander’s mind, Robbe quietly mumbles into his neck, “I’m kinda hungry.”

“Oh god, me too,” Sander chuckles.

Robbe wipes Sander’s tears away with his elegant though slightly shaky fingertips. “Can we order room service? Pizza?”

“With extra cheese.” Sander runs the pads of his thumbs over the delicate skin under Robbe’s eyes, taking in his overall rumpled appearance, before grabbing a towel and slinging it around his shoulders. “Let’s get you dry before you pass out in here, love.”

While Sander rubs Robbe’s arms with the soft fabric, Robbe leans up on his tiptoes and kisses his forehead, just the softest touch of puffy, pink lips. “I love you, Sander. I can’t wait to spend all my minutes with you.”

-

A week later, Sander takes the many steps up to their flat two at a time, impatient and giddy, a little square box tucked safely into his jean pocket. Hastily shrugging off his jacket and unlacing his boots, cold-cheeked and slightly out of breath, he finds Robbe in the kitchen wiping down the countertop, still in his underwear, the sleeves of his big jumper pushed up to his elbows, rays of bright winter sun playing with his warm walnut locks, the most beautiful he has ever been, Sander thinks.

The plates and mugs from their late breakfast are squeaky clean and back in the cupboard; About an hour earlier, Sander had quickly downed the last few gulps of his coffee, grabbed half a croissant, and excused himself, something about needing to get some stuff from his studio. In reality, a pair of shiny, silver bands with their initials intricately engraved on the inside was waiting for him at the jeweller’s, ready to be picked up.

“Hey,” Robbe smiles casually over his shoulder. “Did you get the things you needed?”

“Yeah, I did,” Sander says, dropping a kiss to Robbe’s neck, before grabbing his waist and turning him around. Wide-eyed and with the dishcloth in hand, Robbe watches him sink down on one knee right there in their small, sunlit kitchen that smells of coffee beans and citrussy soap, just before noon on the first Saturday of December.

“Oh, Sander,” he breathes.

Although Robbe’s love of Sander’s spontaneity was cemented once and for all seven days ago, Sander wants to give him this too: the traditional; the clear-cut way of promising forever.

Within a second, Robbe drops the cloth, eagerly yanks the old ring off his finger, and nods enthusiastically before Sander has even asked.

Sander - heart bursting with love – slips the silver band onto the fourth finger of Robbe’s left hand where it fits snugly, without risk of ever getting lost.

Robbe jumps into his arms, looping his legs around him, kissing him long and hard, and Sander stumbles forward, settling him on the newly cleaned countertop, squeezing his bare thighs and dousing him with muttered I love yous.

“You sneaky boy.” Glowing and thoroughly kissed, Robbe moves his hand and studies the ring as it flashes in the sunlight.

“D’you like it?” Sander asks, nosing into his temple.

Droopy-eyed, Robbe rests his palm over Sander’s beating heart. “I love it. It’s beautiful. Just like you.” His fingertips card through the wave of Sander’s long, dark fringe, a grin tugging on his face. “There’s no going back now.”

Sander barely remembers a time without Robbe, but right then, he feels the miserable, rootless teenager he once was unclench his fists, heaving a final sigh of relief and sinking into a well-deserved peaceful rest, his battle over at long last. And it’s as if Robbe senses it too, because he draws him in, affectionately smoothing a hand up and down his back and pressing his lips to his cheekbone.

Twining his arms tightly around Robbe’s small waist, Sander buries his face into the warm, home-like and sweet-scented crook of his neck – his favourite place to be – and whispers, “No going back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh to be proposed to by the love of your life in a bathtub full of bubbles before having pizza at five am 🛁🍕💗  
> (yes, they've had the same Insta profile pictures for like seven years lolol)
> 
> Thank you for reading! x


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